


Raindrops on the Windshield

by brittaniethekid



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cheating, F/M, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:53:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittaniethekid/pseuds/brittaniethekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's coming back from somewhere that he never should have been. </p><p>Based off of Garth Brooks' "The Thunder Rolls".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raindrops on the Windshield

She looks at the clock for the hundredth time in as many minutes. The red 3:30 taunts her from across the room. He was supposed to be home long before now. A night on the town, he said. Just some drinks with the boys, he said. He needed to wind down after a long week of filming and she knew he'd been stressed, wound up so she said ok. But be home by midnight. He had agreed.

She usually didn't worry this much if he was late. They weren't married yet and he was the kind of guy that had a ton of friends, never one to let his girl tie him down. She knew and understood. But the night was all wind and rain and lightning and she’s worried. One slick road and it would be over. But he would call or someone would call. And she's tried his phone five times. It's off. He's never left her hanging like this before. 

She looks out the window again to watch a flash of light across the sky. It's colder by the window and a chill runs up her spine, causing her to hug her pajamas closer to her skin to save the warmth. With the rumble of sounds outside, other images begin to swirl in her mind. A known face like his was sure to attract attention of more intimate kind. Round breasts, slender waists, small hands, shiny lips, wicked tongues. They surround him by the truckloads. She'll smile at him knowingly and he'll return the glance, but he's not here to reassure her of his dependability now. Instead, he's over three hours late with no word on when he'll be back in her arms. 

Sleep is the farthest from her mind it could be and her heart feels like a ten-ton brick in her chest. She tries his cell phone once more and after only one solemn ring, his voice laughs in her ear that he’ll return her call as soon as he can if she leaves a message. The fact that his phone is off is just one more indicator that it isn't drunken friends or the wind that's keeping his headlights from shining through the window.

Finally. Finally she sees the black truck pull up, hears the engine just barely above the gusting winds and hard downpour that rages outside the window. Though she's wearing nothing but a large flannel shirt and a smile, she rushes out into the storm, arms open and heart forgiving. He grins back, though something seems off. She pushes the thoughts aside and just thanks God that he's ok, that he's home. He grips her close and whispers apologies into her hair, lips softly skimming the tip of her ear. 

Something is off. Or was off. Got off. She can smell it on him. A biting mixture of liquor, smoke, cologne, sex, and guilt. Hellfire. She pulls back suddenly and smacks him across the face, distant lightning showing her the way. He stumbles back against the truck, stricken look cast at her. Her tears mix with the rain on her cheeks and soak through her shirt. She screams her fear and hatred into his face, hopes in the back of her mind the thunder keeps meddling neighbors' open ears and loose mouths from their business.

No one comes home to her smelling of that, especially not after the waiting. She slams the door in his face, cutting off her name from his lips. She breathes deep and looks around her, at the house they've shared for months, waiting for the date of their union. Wedding bells are drowned now with the rest of the town in the raging storm. She seeks out evidence of who it could be. He's not one for anonymous flings - he has too much at stake, too much to risk. The only contrivances she can think of are the pictures. Hundreds of pictures around the house, first his then theirs. There is the usual blend of her and hims. Of his pets. Of crew. Of friends. But the majority of them are of _them_. It’s not a woman who clings to his arms, hands on his chest with a smile that could melt the heart of the most bitter of souls - but a man. 

The damning smell of intermingling cologne sparks in her memory. Something was off. It wasn't the dainty scent of a female that spiced his collar. 

She sinks to the floor, head against the door. She can still hear his words on the other side of the wood - his pleas for her forgiveness. She wonders if he knows what he's asking it for. He has to know she knows. Must have seen something flash in her eyes along with the electricity in the air. She reaches up behind her and secures the lock. Guilt must have kept him from even trying the door. His size could undo her as easily as a knife through butter, but that's not his way. Minutes pass and the pleading murmurs subside. The drone of a billion raindrops continues to batter the roof, only silenced with the periodic thunderous booms.

 

She never hears his truck pull away again and doesn't wait around for its return. She's gone with the storm and the sun rises onto an empty house, only smashed glass from the pictures of two smiling friends left as evidence that anyone was there that night at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I entirely blame my best friend for this (it was her prompt anyway). Way back in 2008, our mutual love for Garth Brooks and Supernatural fandom crashed together and this is some of the aftermath. I kept it purposefully ambiguous but I did have the then-still-together Jared and Sandra in mind while I was writing it.


End file.
